Second Time Around: School Hard
by SillyDragon09
Summary: Post NFA, Spike is granted a wish.Story 1 in the series!


**Prologue**

**May 19th 2004**

**Gunn**: _Any word on Wes? _  
**Illyria**: _Wesley's dead. I'm feeling grief for him. I can't seem to control it. I wish to do more violence.  
_**Spike**: _Well, wishes just happen to be horses today._  
**Angel**: _Among other things._  
**Gunn**: _You take the 30,000 on the left._  
**Illyria**: _You're fading. You'll last 10 minutes at best._  
**Gunn**: _Then let's make it memorable._  
**Spike**: _In terms of a plan?_  
**Angel**: _We fight.  
_**Spike**: _Bit more specific._  
**Angel**: _Well, personally, I kind of want to slay the dragon. Let's get to work._

They fought in the rain.

Charlie went down swinging, and Spike and Illyria formed a protective guard over where he'd fallen, fighting back-to-back long after the human had faded.

Angel had slain the dragon, for the lot of good it had done him. Spike's last glimpse of the old man was Angel's dark head disappearing beneath a mass of enemy soldiers. When the crowd parted again, Angel was simply gone and Spike wasn't close enough to see the ash.

Illyria kept Spike alive, dragging her pet through the streets of LA after his legs had been severed at the knees. They cut him to ribbons, and yet he never quit. He never stopped fighting. _Spike never gives up. It's who he is._

The slayers finally arrived, pouring into the alleyway like modern-day amazons, brandishing their swords and axes, turning the tide, driving back the forces of darkness. Spike's searching gaze scoured their ranks, searching for that specific blonde head, but she never came.

"Remain here," Illyria instructed, dropping Spike to the cold wet concrete. The God King's hair was slicked to her skull, and she alone had been strong enough to come through the bloodbath without sustaining considerable damage.

"Not like I'm going anywhere," Spike snapped snidely. His legs were bloody stumps, and the rest of him wasn't in much better condition. He was done for. His body knew it. His spirit just hadn't accepted yet.

The leather goddess departed without one of her pithy retorts, making Spike think that he is worse off than he'd figured if Illyria couldn't find it in herself to leave him with one final insult.

_God, _he prayed,_ Let's strike one of those deathbed deals, y'hear? Let me hang on long enough to see Buffy one last time and I'll…I'll…_

_Give up smoking?_

As if in response to his prayer, a vision in sparkling pinkness appeared before him, causing Spike a terrible moment of doubt. _God's a girl? _Or worse- _Buffy's lost her fashion sense?_

Only, it isn't Buffy.

"OH, MY! You're just in terrible shape, aren't you?" The woman bent over the vampire, inspecting his wounds. She was matronly, plump and round, rather reminding Spike of someone's spinster auntie. "I'm afraid that the damage is much too extensive to heal. You're as good as dead."

"I'm already dead, you stupid bint," Spike snarled up at her.

She drew back, a hurt look upon her kindly face. "Well, more dead," she clarified delicately.

"Who-?"

"My name is Glindagelbryht, and I'm an agent for the Powers That Be. You see, I was supposed to come to you the first time you died to save the world in order to deliver your final reward. However, the mystical intervention of certain forces has delayed dispensation of your reward."

"My reward?" Spike parroted, feeling like an idiot. However, his mind is no longer clear. Everything is growing distant as the last of the strength seeped out of his body. Another minute and he will be pile of ash.

"Your wish," Glinda said, suddenly focused and concise as if she realized that time was short. "What do you want, dearie? I'm here to grant your dying wish."

"I want-" _What did he want? _Spike should've been more suspicious, should have known better. But in a moment of weakness, he succumbs to the temptation to think, _Sure, why not a reward? Hadn't he earned one dying to save the world?_

"Yes?" She crowded him eagerly, her pink plump face filling up his fading vision.

"I want-" _Buffy's perfect face replaces Glinda's._

"Yes? You want what? To do things over?" For a supposedly impartial principle this bint sure isn't reticent about trying to plant ideas in a dying man's head.

"Sure, do over sounds good," Spike heard his voice agree from a great distance. "A chance to get things right this time." The slayer's angelic visage comes closer. She is smiling down at him, taking him into her arms.

Spike released a blissful sigh. "I wish...Buffy," he whispered.

"Wish granted," Glinda announced in a voice that clapped like thunder.

_Ballocks, what the soddin' hell just happened?_

Spike's world blinked out of existence.

**September 29th 1997**

The classic 1958 Dodge Desoto FireFlite crashed through the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign, screeching to a halt before a small park and playground. Spike's knuckles were white on the wheel, and the paralyzing disorientation lasted until Drusilla in seat beside him began to scream.

"You're tainted!" Drusilla shrieked, sobbing uncontrollably as she clawed at the passenger side door, seeking escape.

Spike's head jerked to the side, staring with jaw hanging aghast at his formerly beloved mistress, the bright star, the black void, at the center of his sky. Drusilla's pallor was sickly. Her hands formed talons as she pawed weakly at the glass, keening her distress.

Spike nearly panicked, but he could feel his soul, riding high and bright in his breast, illuminating every part of his being.

"Bugger," he swore, reaching for the handle to the door. It jerked open, spilling the platinum vampire out into the night. "THIS WASN'T WHAT I MEANT YOU SODDIN' WITCH!"

He thought he heard laughter.

* * *

Drusilla wouldn't stop her bloody screaming, which was grating on Spike's nerves so bad that he couldn't think. In a fit of pitched desperation, he applied a strangle hold to Dru's throat, squeezing just long enough to knock her out, which wasn't very in her weakened condition. He did so with a hangover of guilt, because in spite of everything that'd gone on, this was Drusilla. His sire. His former beloved. It'd have been a lie to say that he felt nothing for her even if it was no longer the all consuming love and passion they'd once shared.

Silence descended like a blessing, and Spike sagged heavily against the DeSoto's bench seat. Fuck. Fuck oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as he can into contact with thickly gelled helmet head. A scowl followed a quick inspection of his body. And his _clothes! _What the fuck had he been thinking? He looked like a punk reject from the 70's, and oh, wait...

He _is_ a punk reject from the 70's in 1997.

Back to the bigger problem: a poorly worded wish combined with a moment of weakness in which he'd briefly believed in justice and rewards, had landed him, a souled vampire, in 1997. Princess Di has been dead a month. Clinton is in office. 911 hasn't happened yet. Buffy is a junior in high school. The world is a sweeter, more innocent place.

Drusilla is deathly ill, and Spike didn't have it in him to abandon her. He knows even as he considers it that he doesn't have the balls. However, he cannot justify helping her get better, because of what it would mean to turn her loose on an unsuspecting world.

This isn't a second chance to do things over with Buffy, so much as an effin' nightmare. He is _so_ screwed. What the hell? Where to go? What to do? He has no friends or even acquaintances that will accept him as he is: ensouled.

Going to the Annoying One: out. Going to Buffy and the Scoobs: out. The Scoobs wouldn't know him from any other bloodsucker.

Spike dredged his memory, desperately seeking a solution, and one name immediately comes leaping forth: Angel. The old man might understand and be willing to lend a hand.

Time to give old grand pappy a call.

Finding an Angel who does not wish to be found is a lot like trying to get at a big ol' crusty bugger that's buried deep in the back of your nostril. You really have to dig.

The only sure fire method of locating the old man that Spike could devise involved baiting a trap, and then setting up surveillance. Angel is sure to be doing his trademark "I love you so much and this is how I show I care" stalking of the slayer. Spike disliked the thought of using Buffy, but he is desperate and short on time.

Spike chained up Drusilla, and locked her inside the backseat of the DeSoto, which he left in a parking garage in downtown Sunnydale. That way she was relatively safe, unlikely to escape, and protected from sunlight if he failed to return before dawn.

Dawn. Spike misses the Bit. It is depressing to think that it'd be a good three years before she'd even be a twinkle in the eyes of that monastic order that'd magicked her up.

He shed the obnoxious red shirt, stripping down to the basic black T underneath, and then donned his jacket. _His trench._ Spike spent a full minute caressing the beaten up old duster, nearly moved to tears. It is like being reunited with an old friend. (Sodding Immortal and his 'joke' bomb. Spike will make the Immortal pay someday.)

He walked to The Bronze, taking a vivid stroll down memory lane. The streets of Sunnydale were a nightmare that lingers always in the back of his mind. He liked it better as a pit.

The Bronze is exactly as he remembered it: cheap and tacky, full of bored kids and busy cockroaches, perched directly atop an underworld of evil that existed in the catacombs beneath.

The crowd parted for him as if sensing the arrival of a VIP with purpose. The band struck up a new song, "Stupid Thing", and Spike kept his stride slow and steady, eyes front and forward.

_I did a stupid thing last night_

_I called you_

_A moment of weakness_

_No, not a moment _

_More like three months of weakness_

And there they are: Buffy and Xander performing a lively little dance together; Willow shuffling her feet with her perky smile.

A fond affectiont lit Spike's blue eyes as he paced the edge of the dance floor, studying them –Buffy- just as he'd done the first time around. His lips curved into the slightest expression of amusement. So young. They are kids. He is gonna have to handle this with finesse and aplomb.

I_'m one step away from crashing to my knees_

_One step away from spilling my guts to you_

_I'm doing all right_

_No, don't feel sorry for me_

_Really I'm all right_

_I'm one step away from crashing to my knees_

Spike needs for Angel to see him, and there is only one way to be sure. Stepping through an opening in the crowd, Spike joined the Scoobs on the dance floor. He is't worried about Buffy sensing that he is a vampire. She hadn't the first time, and that'd never been her strong suit. Not in the early days.

"Dance with me?" Spike asked, just as "Stupid Thing" ends. He had the advantage of knowing that the next one will be slow. He deliberately offered Buffy one of his prettiest smiles, well aware of how her abdomen quivers when he looks at her like that, because she's told him so, a hushed confession in a moment of post-coital bliss as they cuddled beneath the red rug.

Buffy hesitated, clearly tempted, and he can see her mind churning up thoughts of Angel who is elusive and cryptic, and a massive disappointment as a boyfriend. At this point they aren't committed; they aren't even officially dating. She's a free woman, free to dance with whomever she pleases.

"Sure," she said with that defiant, determined smile that he knows and loves so well. "What's your name?"

"Spike." The music changed and he opened his arms, inviting her to dance with him as he's done so many times before. Only this time the lyrics are different even if the song is the same.

"That's unusual." Her brow knit, and she bit back a witty quip, but he could hear her thoughts brandying the taunt about. _I had a poodle named Spike once. Oooh, Spike. How original! Did you think of it all by yourself? Is that basic male insecurity, or maybe it's descriptive of the point on your head?_

Buffy smiled _so sweet, _and stepped into his arms. Spike held her loosely, unwilling to risk anything that might alarm.

"What's your name, love?" he asked, because it was expected.

"Buffy." Her chin lifted, so beautifully defiant, and he grinned.

"That's a nice name," he said, because after all these years he could say so and be sincere. He truly believes it.

Spike saw the puzzlement in the slayer's eyes, and knew that he'd been too familiar, too casual, too intimate, but he didn't care.

Spike pulled her close and held her tighter, savoring what is their first, and perhaps only, real dance together.

Afterward, he disappeared into the crowd again, moving away before Buffy could ask too many questions. Spike had felt a jealous monster burning holes in his back. He knew that Angel had been there and seen. The trap was baited.

Now to wait.

* * *

Spike set up surveillance outside the high school, waiting for Angel to put in his inevitable appearance. The Scoobs were gathered in the library for a powwow, probably discussing the night of St. Vigeous, which was upcoming Saturday.

Spike had never been one for crusades, but the feasts on St. Vigeous were always good. Of course, his soul was going to keep him from participating this year... Ah, whatever the case, St. Vigeous would have to be put to a stop. However, so far as priorities went, it is way down on Spike's To Do list. He has other worries...

A rustling in the bushes pulled the blonde vampire from his reverie, and he peered down from his hiding spot atop the gymnasium roof. Sure enough, a hulking dark figure was moving through the bushes, heading toward the library.

Spike dropped catlike to the ground, and set off after Angel at a good clip. Spike can't afford to have Angel warn the Scoobs about him. He wanted to remain anonymous for as long as possible. Preferably forever.

"Hey, Angelus, wait up!" Spike called. The old man's back stiffened, and he paused mid-stride. Spike could just hear the gears grinding as Angel processed the sound of his grand child's voice. The wanker had that "oh shit" set to his shoulders as he swiveled to face Spike like a man turning to meet his fate.

"Spike!" Angel slapped on a shit-eating grin that's so fake he could be selling toothpaste. Angel doesn't have Xander to use as a prop this time, and Spike is dying to see how he'll play it.

"I'll be damned! I haven't seen you in the killing fields for an age!" Spike declared, savoring every line. His grin is real and he doesn't bother to hide it, though his glee comes from the prospect of watching Angel squirm.

"Well, you know me, I'm not much for company," Angel said, which is a bald faced lie. Angelus had always loved companionship, needing to be the center of attention. When it wasn't the girls, it was Spike.

Spike remembers only too well.

"No, you never were," Spike agreed, because it was his line.

"So, how bout this slayer? You come up against her yet?" Spike asked as if they weren't standing right outside the library. As if he's too oblivious and too blithe to know that Buffy is just inside. Angel will buy it because he likes to underestimate Spike. Everyone does.

Sure enough-

"She's cute. Not too bright, though. Gave the puppy dog 'I'm all tortured' act. Keeps her off my back when I feed!" Angel laughed.

_Buffy would bitch slap Angel if she heard him talking like this._

Spike laughed too, hard and short. "So, why're you so scared of this Slayer?"

"Scared?" Angel's ego feels the sting. He doesn't like the implication the second time around anymore than he did the first.

"Yeah. Time was you would've taken her out in a heartbeat. Now look at you. I bet this, uh, tortured thing is an act, right? You're not...housebroken?" Spike slapped on an inquisitive look, but he has to bite the insides of his cheeks to hold back his grin.

"I saw her kill the Master," Angel replied, looking lost. The old sod always was a terrible actor, and without Xander to play bite he's hit a brick wall.

"You poor thing, have it so hard," Spike mocked. "It must be torture having to frequent the butcher shop and snogging with the slayer just to keep her from getting wise to you," he said, delivering the taut with as much acerbic sarcasm as he can pack into one jibe.

Angel blinked, clearly thrown. Spike badly wanted to throw in a cutting remark: about Darla, about backstabbing your own sire, about Uncle Toms. However, he exercised a modicum of control and held his tongue. There is a difference between some friendly ribbing between mates, and the sort of taunts that hit you where you live.

"You think you can fool me?" Spike demanded, taking a step forward as if to take a punch, which caused Angel to retreat a pace. "Did you really think I didn't notice the difference while we on that sub together?"

Angel's expression hardened, and he gave up the charade. "What do you want, Spike? This is a bad idea. You should get out of town while you still can. Before it ends badly."

'You should' not 'Take Dru', which tells Spike what Angel doesn't know.

"I can't," Spike replied with a sigh, shedding his Big Bad persona as easily as he'd ditched that red shirt. In spite of giving the old man a hard time, Spike is actually happy to be reunited with his sire.

This last year so much of the ill will he'd harbored against Angel so long and so hard had been shed. Differences had been resolved, and they'd _almost_ been friends. The image of Angel's death is emblazoned in Spike's mind, and it's something that he won't soon forget. Life is short, life is precious, and the people you care for can be ripped away just like **that.**

"Dru's ill. A mob got hold of her in Prague, and she nearly died. I need your help, Angel."

Angel's jaw dropped open, and his expression was a quick succession of emotion. Guilt. Uncertainty. Fear. "I can't," he said, starting to turn away, to run.

Spike panicked, reached out and grabbed Angel's arm, hauling him back. "You **owe** her, Angel," he said, willing to employ any means, including emotional blackmail, to win the old man's assistance. "You remember what you did to her? Murdered her family, drove her mad, raped her, murdered all those nuns-"

"I REMEMBER!" Angel shouted, getting up into Spike's face. Angel grabbed hold of the lapels of the blonde's duster, nearly pulling Spike off his feet. "I remember," Angel said in a voice full of torment. "I never forget." He shook Spike hard.

Abruptly, pity suffuses Spike He actually feels sorry for the stupid old codger. Thanks to his soul, Spike experiences regret and remorse for his victims, but he's never been one to wallow. The past couldn't be changed, and the dead couldn't be brought back. So Spike had accepted his sin, and then moved on. He doesn't dwell. He simply chooses to be a better person.

Angel isn't like Spike. A hundred years later, and the guilt still weighed heavily upon his tortured soul. Spike supposes that it is a combination of that bloody curse, and the very nature of the beast.

Angel still had a tight hold of Spike's coat, and looked almost in tears. Instead of mocking him, Spike marshaled a rare compassion. "Look, I need your help Angel. I can't do this alone."

It stuck in Spike's craw, but he forced the word out.

"Please?"

Angel's head jerked up, and he stared at Spike in open shock. The old man is actually _seeing_ him for the first time in twelve decades of acquaintance.

"What the hell has happened to you?" Angel demanded. _Where is the real Spike?_

Spike shrugged. William Pratt died over a century and quarter ago. The old Spike is gone. It's been two years, but he's still not sure who the new Spike is and will be.

"I've got a soul," Spike declared, because it was the simplest and easiest thing to say.

Angel released Spike as fast as if the blonde were scalding hot. The elder vampire _staggered_ backward until he ran up against a wall. He released a low cry – a keen – of pain.

"Can we go somewhere and talk? I'm only asking you to listen to me," Spike asked, pressing his advantage while Angel is off balance.

Angel's Cro-Magnon features worked, and he was obviously torn between refusal and curiosity.

Spike waited expectantly, knowing that Angel wouldn't be able to pass on something this big. Sure enough-

"Alright," Angel agreed.

Spike exhaled heavily in relief. "Alight then."

* * *

Spike took Angel to the parking garage where he'd left the DeSoto for the dual purposes of checking on Drusilla, and the privacy it afforded. Buffy typically patrolled clubs and cemeteries. She wasn't likely to be looking for a trio of vampires hanging out at Mervyns.

Drusilla greeted their return with a piteous wail of grief and rage, and resumed her incoherent babbling about both of her boys being tainted. Angel stared dumbfounded at his wretched creation with platter-sized eyes and open horror until Spike finally dragged the old man away.

"Point made, eh?" Spike grunted, releasing Angel's arm once they'd reached the roof. Drusilla's reaction had done more to substantiate Spike's claim of soul-having than anything the blonde vampire could possibly have said.

"I've got a soul, alright," Spike grumbled and glared at the mute Angel. "For the time being, I'm not gonna explain the how or why of it. That's a long, convoluted story, and let's not go through your juvenile whining 'bout 'got one first' cause I'm not in the mood, y'hear?"

Angel focused on Spike and nodded hard. Once. The old man looked positively shaken, so Spike dug around in his trench until he located the pack of cigarettes that was sure to be there if this were truly 1997. Even though Spike-of-the-future has really cut back on his smoking.

"She's in bad shape," Angel, master of the understatement, said.

"Yeah." Spike extracted the pack and shook out two cigarettes, offering one to Angel who hesitated before accepting. Spike held the lighter for Angel, and then lit his own fag. They puffed away together in companionable silence.

Then, into the quiet that told him that Angel was ready to listen, Spike went on to tell his tale. He kept his explanation terse and tight, sticking only to the facts that Angel needed to know. Big Battle. Angel's death. Spike's pending demise. Wish fairy, or maybe a Vengeance demon, Spike isn't sure. One badly worded wish granted.

Angel is right with him, nodding in acceptance, and Spike has Total Plausibility right up until-

"YOU saved the world? YOU? OH, C'MON! SPIKE! You can't honestly expect me to believe that YOU saved the world!"

-Angel gets hung up on the idea that Spike is a heroic dude.

"Yeah, **I** saved the world, and that's more than you've ever done, you pathetic wanker," Spike snarled in annoyance.

Spike resumed his explanation only once Angel's laughter subsided. "And so here I am, stuck in this fucked up alter-verse, or maybe it really is my own past, but with my soul. I'm screwed."

Angel surreptitiously wipes tears from his eyes, and Spike thinks that maybe the old fart isn't as sympathetic as he oughta be.

"I'll admit that I'm having trouble with some of this," Angel said. "Aside from the implausibility of heroic-you are you trying to tell me that where you come from we're...friends?"

Spike sputtered. "NO!" He breathed, he calmed, he scoffed. "C'mon Angel, don't be a Nancy. There isn't an alternative reality strange enough where you and I could be mates!"

It is the right thing to say. Angel actually looks relieved.

"So what do you want me to do?" Angel asked eventually. "Help find Dru a cure?"

Spike shook his head. "I know the cure from my first time around, and I can't in good conscience heal her up and let her loose, knowing how many innocent people she'd kill."

"I'm having trouble reconciling the words 'good conscience' with anything coming out of your mouth," Angel replied humorously.

"Shut up, Angel, this isn't funny," Spike muttered darkly.

"What's the cure?" Angel asked.

"You." Spike took a grim satisfaction from the expression on Angel's face.

"Last time around I kidnapped you, bound you to Dru n' drove a dagger through your hands to enable a life drain that only works between sire n' child," Spike said, making it clear that he was perfectly ruthless, perfectly vicious. Perfectly truthful.

"What happened?" Angel asked.

"Dru got better; Slayer saved you." _And Spike broke his back._

The resulting silence is legendary.

"What then?" Angel asked eventually.

"Could you give me a hand taking care of her until until..." Until she finally died. Spike couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, so he kept rambling.

"Here's a thought. Let's take out the Anointed One and his minions, and take over the old factory. I know where they're holed up, and it kills two birds with one stone. Takes out their faction before the night of St. Vigeous, spares the slayer a nasty fight, and gives us some place to keep Dru safe."

"You're willing to kill your own kind," Angel said, sounding numb. Spike noticed the 'your', which caused the blonde vampire's brow to knit. Surely Angel isn't that far in denial that he can use 'your' when it should be 'our'?

"Sure," Spike replied. "You and me, eliminating a rival nest, asserting our dominance over a territory. Just like old times."

Coaching the suggestion in vampire-speak seemed to make the idea more palatable to Angel, which left Spike wondering how many more years it'll be before Angel the Fluffy Hero of the Weak and Meek will rear his mighty head.

Angel nodded, slowly at first and then vigorously, looking like he was really getting into the idea. "Yeah, alright. We can do this."

Spike nearly collapsed with pure boneless relief. We.

"Better hurry then. Night's a wasting," Spike said, casting aside his cigarette butt. Angel's burnt out, mostly unsmoked, ages ago.

"Wait up," Angel said, following the blonde. "We need to discuss tactics." The old man's always had a real hard on for strategy and tactics.

"I've got a plan," Spike muttered, irritably casting a glance over his shoulder.

Angel started laughing again. _"You've got a plan!" _He snorted hard. "Oh, that's rich! You must think that I'm suicidal in addition to having a soul."

"Shut up, wanker," Spike swore.

"Mama's boy."

"Cretin."

"Poof."

The insults fly. It is like a hundred years haven't passed. Just like old times.

* * *

"This weekend on the night of St. Vigeous when our power shall be at its peak is when I shall slay the slayer-" 

"Isn't that a redundancy?" Spike asked.

The vampires gathered in the factory turned to stare at him. The Annoying One was perched upon his little throne, and it was the same moron as last time who was doing most of the speechifying. By Spike's estimate he was two hours later than the first time, which meant that this wanker'd been talking that whole time.

"You know, slaying the slayer?" Spike repeated, because no one seemed to be sly to his wit. Genius is such a burden. Spike is always misunderstood.

"We are discussing my ascension to Master," Moron #1 informed Spike. "When I kill the slayer it will be the greatest event since the

Crucifixion. And I should know. I was there."

"You really ought to get a few new lines," Spike muttered beneath his breath. But oh, what the hell! Might as well play it according to the script!

"_You_ were _there_?" Spiked chuckled. "Oh, please! If every vampire who said he was at the crucifixion was actually there, it would have been like Woodstock."

"I oughta rip your throat out," Moron #1 said. _On cue._

Spike offered the damn fool his back and strolled away. "I was actually at Woodstock. That was a weird gig. I fed off a flowerperson, and I spent the next six hours watchin' my hand move."

Moron #1 rushed Spike from behind. Without even looking, the blonde swung his fist up, hitting the blowhard in the face, knocking him down and out cold. A stake appeared in Spike's hand, and he sent it into another vampire's heart with an aimed throw.

Across the factory another vampire exploded into ash, and Angel finally swung down from the rafters. For a second, every one of the Annointed One's minions were speechless with shock.

"Who are you?" Colin asked.

"Spike. You're that Annoying guy. I read about you. Wish I'd done this the first time around." The blonde vampire slammed another stake home into Colin's heart.

Spike and Angel made quick work of the rest.

* * *

Afterward they moved into the factory and set up a cozy nest. Spike carried Drusilla, still bound in chains, to a couch where he set her down. At least she's finally stopped her bloody screaming, which was driving Spike mad. 

"I'm cold, Spike," Drusilla whimpered. "Where've you gone." She stared right through him like he wasn't present.

I'm right here, pet," Spike said, even though he sensed it was hopeless. Drusilla **knows** that it isn't really him. Not anymore.

"Hey, I found her hiding in the cellar," Angel said, appearing with a terrified female minion who he is dragging.

"Yeah, so?" Spike demanded, glaring at the dark haired teenager that Angel is manhandling. "Kudos fer you, clever boy."

"Well, we're gonna need a nanny for Dru, right?" Angel has already reasoned this all out in his head already, Spike can see, but he tries to point out the obvious.

"She'll eat people. She'll lead the slayer back here. Not to mention your resultin' orgy of guilt," Spike said, enumerating all the reasons it is a bad idea.

"I'll take care of that. Just give me a couple minutes alone with her." Angel dragged the teenager around the room a couple times, agitating Drusilla every time he passed, swimmer and shark.

"What the fuck are you lookin' for?" Spike demanded, irritated. _Can't the wanker see that he's getting her going again? _Spike just got Dru calmed down.

"I need a tool box," Angel said.

"Hold on, got one in the trunk." Spike made a quick trip out to the DeSoto and returned, forking over the toolbox to Angel who removed a pair of pliers.

"Wait here," Angel said, which was entirely pointless. Spike had no intention of leaving Drusilla alone in order to tag along on Angel's little torture trip.

The screams from the basement are sharp and piercing. Drusilla wailed in reply, and Spike ran a soothing hand over her silken dark tresses.

_The old man hasn't lost his passion, or his talent for torture._

"If you're a good girl then maybe Angel will hurt you a little," he whispered, which calms Drusilla somewhat. The promise of some quality time with daddy.

"Prezzies for the special girl," Drusilla murmured, making small fussing motions in her lap with her hands. The chains clank with her every moment.

When Angel finished the teenage girl wouldn't lift her gaze from her feet or open her mouth. Her lips remain tightly pressed together, she never speaks, but she is attentive to Drusilla.

"Her eyeteeth will grow back in a week," Angel said to Spike, overly defensive.

Spike shrugged. "Didn't say a word."

* * *

Spike attended Parent-Teacher night after all. He parked it in a shady corner and hid behind a book that he snatched off a teacher's desk. He studied Buffy who is passing out bitter lemonade, which makes people grimace behind her back. 

It only took Spike a half hour to be sure that he won't be competing with Angel for the heart of Buffy Summers. The slayer is young, and inexperienced. Soft. This isn't the woman that Spike loves. She is Angel's girl. Maybe in a few years things will be different, but for the time being Spike renews his vow to keep his distance.

"That's a wonderful book."

Joyce.

Spike's head snapped to the side, and a smile of genuine delight curved his lips, because he is thrilled to see her. Buffy's mum has occupied a special place in his heart since she knocked him upside the head with that fire extinguisher.

There are reasons that in all those years, and all those opportunities, harm never befell Joyce Summers at Spike's hands.

"Oh yeah, it's amazing," Spike agreed, so very sweet, and he had to hide his pleasure at seeing her behind enthusiasm for his stolen novel. A quick glance at the title reveals that it is "The Bridges of Madison County".

Joyce threw away a full paper cup of lemonade and lingered, staring at Spike's lips, which are curved into a delicious little smile. He knows his enthusiasm is being misinterpreted, but he doesn't care. So many people he's loved and cared for have died, and this is like a special gift to see Buffy's mum alive again.

"My book club meets every Wednesday at 7:30PM," Joyce began shyly. "Of course, you're probably not interested." She starts to turn away.

Spike caught her elbow. "Where at?"

Joyce told him the place, and walked away, her heartbeat accelerated, flushed with giddy excitement. Her pheromones are in overdrive from the sort of arousal that comes from a slightly older woman flirting with a man who looks like Spike.

Spike isn't sure he'll go, but he hasn't ruled the possibility out. He tucks the book under his arm because he'd better read it, so he'll know what he's talking about.

Just in case.

End.


End file.
